When Arya returned from her bath, the Stark sisters had much to discuss. So, Veena showed Sandor to the empty second-floor bedroom, directly across from Kellan's room. It was simply furnished, modestly decorated, containing a feather bed, a chair, a writing desk covered with books, and a basin stand with an empty pitcher. There was no chamber pot, but this floor had a single, shared privy. Veena took the pitcher and promised to return with washing towels and water. As he unpacked his few belongings he found the gift he'd brought her. I'll need to give this to her soon.
From the door, he could see Kellan's belongings strewn about his room through the open door. That one has temper. Good, he decided, easier to provoke. I may never have her, but that pile of pig shit won't ever be Lord of the Dreadfort. He wants her. That's plain enough to see, but he doesn't deserve her. The faster she's rid of him, the better. If she did fall in love, Kellan would run a good man off.
He sat on the bed. What will I do, when she finally falls in love and chooses a husband? Even if he's all that she deserves, will I be satisfied to see her happy? Will I obediently stand guard outside her chamber doors on her wedding night, listening to some other man take her maidenhead? The thought made him sick. Maybe she'll never marry, never fall in love, and just sing in Lorath until she's an old maiden. He decided that was wrong. She deserves a family, and she'd be so beautiful with a babe in her belly, full teats, glowing skin, and if it were my babe . . . . But there were dreams he'd never allowed himself, always knowing them impossible. No, her children won't be mine, but I could protect them like I did Myrcella and Tommen.
Try as he might to push them out of his mind, the thoughts persisted. I'd be a better father than my own. That his own father became an accomplice to Gregor's crime by erasing the older son's guilt with a single, well-told untruth was a pain that continued long after the flesh had healed. I told Sansa the truth about myself, told her and threatened to kill her if she repeated it.
Reading had helped ease his solitude on the Quiet Isle, so he moved to the chair at the writing desk and began examining titles. Poetry, songbook, poetry, history. He dismissed them one by one, until he reached the bottom. The last book was thin, its red leather cover wrapped in plain parchment. Love in Essos. He only meant to flip the cover open, but it opened itself to a page in the middle of the book. Each page contained a different depiction of people in various states of coupling, with long written descriptions of each act, its benefits, and how best to achieve the most pleasure from the act. What is this, some sick leftover present from Littlefinger? No. He decided. This can't belong to Sansa. A girl like her would never read this, never keep this. She probably doesn't even know it's in her house. It must be Kellan's.
He opened to the beginning of the book, which began innocently enough, with three chapters on kissing, caressing, and other gestures of affection. He realized that those acts were foreign to him. He'd only been with whores, and they made quick work of gratifying him. None of them had ever even tried to kiss him, and most avoided his face and head at all cost. He learned young, from the loose talk of drunken soldiers, that women could have a release like men did. Once, while on watch duty, he happened upon a stable hand's midnight meeting with a scullion. He spied on the couple through the wooden slats of the horse stall they occupied. The girl, with hay in her hair, professed devotion to her lover, repeating his name in her pleasure until she sang the song of her completion. Jealous and angry, he knew that no woman would ever call his name that way. He realized that he never once considered pleasuring the few whores he'd contracted. It was my coin, not theirs.
The fourth began the series of chapters which addressed each population of Essos individually, beginning with the Dothraki. If I was Dothraki, this face wouldn't matter much. Next came the Braavosi. I doubt the Little Bird would ever perch herself atop a man like that. He flipped the page. The people of Myr lay side by side. Not very crafty, they should stick to making glass. Pentoshis preferred a sitting position, while the Volantenes stood. What the Lysene did would require a very athletic man; the Tyroshi, a very flexible woman. In Norvos, height compatibility would be a critical factor, and the book sternly warned that only women practiced in being upside down for long periods of time should try to imitate the Qohori.
There were many pages dedicated to an act called "the Lorathi kiss," illustrated in both the male and female variations and a third variation which involved both simultaneously. We have different names for this at home. He remembered a whore who was particularly skilled at performing that act on him. Probably put her all into it because she could look at my belly instead of my face. Something made him read the whole section on pleasuring a woman over again, while the tune of The Bear and The Maiden Fair played in his head. What would Sansa taste like? Would she let me do that? Although he had fantasized about her many times before, he found that his thoughts took a different turn this time.
He pictured the shy girl on her wedding night, their wedding night, nervously clinging to her robe, the only barrier left between them. She would probably expect me to just get atop her and roughly take her for my own pleasure, especially after what I told her earlier. I could surprise her, though, treat her gently, make it her pleasure and not her duty, make her want to come to the marriage bed, make her want me. But how? She's such a fragile young thing. I might try cupping her face in my hand, as she did mine. That might relax her. She remembered kissing me. Maybe she'd like that.
It was difficult at first to visualize himself kissing her softly, slowly, as the book described, covering her pink lips with his own, getting her used to the feel of his lips, his kisses, the taste of his mouth. He'd never fantasized about kissing or pleasuring someone else before. In fact, his fantasies were exclusively of women pleasuring him. So, he was quite surprised when he noticed the stiffening in his tight black breeches. Silently, he rose from chair, checked the hall, and barred the door.
He laid on the bed, deciding to continue his strange fantasy. Slowly and gently, like the book said, I could kiss a slow path down her long neck. She'd be shy. He daydreamed of her sliding the robe off her shoulders, finally willing him see all of her, her new womanly body, pink nipples on creamy, firm breasts, small waist, full hips, and red curls where her soft thighs met. His uncomfortable urgency was straining against was laces. He imagined cupping her breast, bringing his mouth to it, her nipple growing taut in his lips. His discomfort grew, and he freed his manhood from his breeches and began stroking himself. I'd make her anticipate it, bring my mouth down her belly across her hip, slide my tongue across the soft skin inside her thigh, and taste my way up to the soft moist lips there. As he pictured himself licking the sweet honey from her pink folds, his strokes quickened. It would be warm and tight. She would be wet for me, wanting more, wanting me. She'd spread her legs wider, repeating my name. She'd quiver in pleasure, and invite me inside of her, beg me inside. His mind could no longer concentrate on the fantasy, images flashing, dissolving, scrambling. He reached for his handkerchief as he felt himself close to the edge. Shit! I gave the handkerchief to Sansa! It was too late to hold back. Overcome by the force of the waves of pleasure, he turned on his side and released his seed onto the bare floor.
Just then, a knock at the door sent him into a panic. "Just a moment." He looked around for something, anything to clean up his mess. The knock was more insistent. "Just leave it at the door! I'll get it myself!" He started lacing his breeches. The girl was bringing a washing towel. I'll clean this mess up with that.
He unbarred the door, and cracked it open. Relieved to find Veena gone and a full pitcher sitting atop a pile of towels, he reached down to grab the supplies. Suddenly, Kellan's silent shadow fell over him, and his bad leg conspired with his hands full of provisions to slow him. The toe of the guard's brown boot nudge the door open, and he stepped in uninvited.
"Busy?" He eyed the room, not even glancing at the older man.
"You've not been invited to enter my chambers, boy. I think there is some house rule about such things."
The younger man strode toward the desk, and before Sandor could usher him out, Kellan sniffed the air like a hunting dog who caught a familiar scent and curled his lips into a disgusted snarl. The mess was still on the floor next to the bed, and the room reeked of it. The Hound let the pitcher clank into the basin.
"Yes. Well, lucky for me, there is no one here to enforce it."
Something about Kellan's arrogant manner reminded Sandor of Jaime Lannister at that age. Difficult as it was, Sandor ignored the verbal baiting because any ruckus would bring one or more of the girls into the room, and he couldn't risk explaining to any of them the mess on the floor, especially if Kellan was there to explain it for him.
"What are you here for?"
Kellan fingered the open pages of the book, "Love in Essos? I haven't seen a copy of this in years. I read it cover to cover when I was a boy. I guess every man is a boy until he finishes that book. Don't you agree, now that you've read most of it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It seems that you're up to the Lorathi kiss, one of my favorites. I'm quite experienced at that one. I've found that women love it more when you . . . Apolgies, ser. I've gotten off track, and I didn't mean to disturb your . . . ," he cleared his throat, "privacy. It's just that supper is about to be served." He snapped the cover closed with a single finger, eyeing the wet spots next to the bed. "I thought you might appreciate some notice in case you needed a moment to wash up first." He turned sharply and strutted out the door.
I'll be killing him.